Insurrection
by Faith1
Summary: When Heero sinks deeper and deeper into alcoholism after the wars end, the other pilots feel they have no choice but to stage an intervention. Will Heero ever be the same again? 1x2x1
1. Chapter 1

Insurrection 

They won't leave me alone. I don't understand why they can't just let me have this. After all I've been through, all those I've fought and killed in the name of peace and now they're trying to take mine away. I know that to an extent they know how I feel; that's why I can't understand their obsessive need to take away my solace. I only wish they could find their own routes to peace; maybe then they'd leave me be. Duo's the worst of them all. My own lover. He forgets that he's the one who introduced me to this reality, who showed me that chemicals can be used to induce something other than pain. I've tried drugs, without the knowledge of my overprotective acquaintances, of course. The experimentations of Dr. J. have left me with only one poison: alcohol. I find myself having to drink more and more to gain that same heady rush a single shot would give me in the beginning. My body always did adapt quickly. Maybe that's what disturbs the others so much. It used to be simply a single glass left standing empty in the morning, now a whole row of clear and tinted glass bottles light up with the rising sun. They tell me I'm addicted. I don't care. They say I have no pride, no self-control. I've had too much for too long. They try to reason with me, it's another form of oppression, manipulation. But it gives me control. They ask me to prove it, to stop for just one week. I say no.

I'm not following orders any more. For once in my miserable existence I'm doing something that makes me happy. They're all hypocrites anyway. Always told me to loosen up, that I take life to seriously and now suddenly I'm frivolous, I'm irresponsible. Nothing can make them happy. Nothing I can do.

I have new friends now. Potential new lovers if Duo ever carries through with his empty threats, empty violet eyes brimming with tears. I wonder sometimes, if I tasted his tears would they be tainted with bitter salt or laced with sweet whiskey? If I wept would absinthe green trek down my cheeks? Maybe one day soon I'll find out.

You people romanticise love. Turn it into this wondrous, magical force which rights every wrong in your life, makes the stains on your soul disappear. Deluded fools. I love Duo and he loves me, there is no doubt about that. But we both wake up screaming; on our own or in each others arms it does not matter. Love is not all you need. And it's not just us. I've seen the demons in Trowa's eyes and heard Quatre cry in his sleep. You can receive comfort in another's arms but it's not that miraculous haven promised by the masses. My solace is not to be found in Duo Maxwell. It's in that warm glow and unstable dimness where the past and the future never has or will happen and inexorable destiny is forgotten. That is what I find in the drink.

I can sense that they want to stage a coup. Lock me away somewhere with only water to quench my thirst. Well I won't let them. I won't be shut in the dark again. Maybe I should leave. Get away from those who can't understand what I need, can't accept who I am. I won't be forced to change again. There're always plenty of offers in the clubs. Always people offering to provide me with a place to stay. Warm, accepting bodies to fuck or be fucked by. Once upon a time it was my extraordinarily naive belief that the five of us would stay together until we died. Five survivors of a unique situation. No one else can ever understand what we went through. Ironic that understanding does not breed acceptance but rejection and arguments, blood, sweat and unspilt tears. I don't want to hurt them; but I am. They've all told me so. They tell me the only way to stop is to give up the drink. There's places you can go, people you can talk to, they know how to deal with people like you!

People like me. There are no people like me. They have no files on their shelves to reference; I am not a textbook case.

I can see this situation coming to an end soon. I can't live with the constant disapproval, they can't live with me. In the coming week everything will be decided. Not to over dramatise but once again life as I know it is about to come to an end.

My worst nightmares are coming true. I keep hoping that this isn't real. That their hands haven't grabbed me by the shoulders, waist, legs. They aren't taking me towards the basement. They won't lock me down there. They wouldn't. But even through the panic that envelops me I know that they will throw me down there, they know not what it is they do. They don't know what happens when people are locked in the basement. I plead with them, let them see the fear in my eyes, but I am met with only disgust. They think I fear to go without the drink. I don't care about not tasting sweet alcohol for a few meagre days if it would spare me a trip into hell. I turn my face to my lover; will him to understand my deeper phobia. It isn't to be. He looks back at me with violet eyes holding the pain I have put there and speaks only one sentence.

"This is for your own good," It was then that I snapped. Sheer terror tore through me, adrenaline surging in its wake. That childlike fear, hammered into me by the wisdom of age, took me away. All that was left of me was the instinct to run far away from that dark doorway. I fought them then, too far gone to care what damage I did. They were ready for me though. Before I even managed to build up a struggle they had me trapped in their grips, limiting my movement, upsetting my stability and steadily herding me towards the door.

They literally threw me inside. All of them have seen me fall from far greater heights and survive. It didn't stop my arm from breaking as I landed awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs. Still I jerked to my feet as soon as I hit solid ground and ran back up towards the door: only to have it slammed shut in my face. Total darkness fell upon me but I knew where the exit was and didn't intend to give up without a fight. I threw myself at the door, good shoulder first, only to hear not the dull thud of wood but the deep clanging resonance of metal. I breathed deeply through my nose and caught the unmistakable tang of gundanium alloy. I went wild with fury, unconsciously knowing that as long as I was mad I didn't have to acknowledge my situation. I screamed obscenities until my throat bled, I clawed and pounded at the door, endorphins blocking out the pain which would soon radiate from my broken arm.

Eventually the adrenaline fled from my system and I collapsed shaking by the top of the stairs, one hand still slowly banging on the door. I wondered where the others were. Listening on the other side? In the kitchen sipping tea? Outside, bathed in warm sunlight? My fear was returning in a slow but steady rush. The pilots hadn't put me down here to die, they'd probably placed a supply of water, maybe food, at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't want to go down into the dark as the damned descend into hell.

I guess I must have been bad again. For year upon year this was my punishment. I refused to kill, the basement. I miscalculated, the basement. I collapsed from exhaustion, the basement. Dr. J. was a master at making monsters of the dark a reality. It always happened the same.

I'd get thrown into the blackness and eventually, when my hysterics had calmed to mind-numbing fear, I'd make my way down. I'd stand at the foot of the stairs, deafened by my own harsh breathing and pounding heart. Then the monsters would come. When I got older I began to try and convince myself that what attacked me down there wasn't demonic spawn but man, machine, beast. I couldn't see them but they always saw me, smelt me, sensed me. I'd get a split seconds warning, a swift breath of air, before the first attack hit me. Hands or claws pulled me down, tore into me. The beasts tried to devour me, sharp teeth slicing cleanly through skin, muscle, through to bone. The human shaped monsters hit and kicked with steel tipped boots. They tore away protective clothes and left me naked in the dark. Did things to me that no child should have to experience, in that basement of deepest black.

Here I was once again. A fool for thinking I had left all this behind, that I was now a person in my own right. There will always be rules and I will always be punished. Let's just forget the fact that I ended two wars. Pathetic achievement that anyone could have done with the right training. Have other champions lived lives like mine?

How long have I been crouched here, paralysed by my past? Hours, maybe days? I was already dehydrated before I was thrown in and now it is really becoming painful. Not surprisingly I'd had a drink last night. Glass after glass, alone in my room, after a passionate argument with Duo. I should have just done as he told me and given him the bottle. I've been taught more than once the consequences of defying authority. There was my downfall; I always viewed Duo as an equal. My head is spinning violently. My body aches for liquid. I'm going to have to go downstairs. I slowly pull myself to my feet, injured arm throbbing uselessly by my side. I lean against the wall and begin to slowly edge down, down.

With every step I take the pressure on my throat, in my chest, increases. My heart beats triple time and my mind clouds with terror. I stand at the bottom of the stairs as I have for so many years, waiting for the violence to come. I hear the scratch of movement against concrete. I move before whatever is hiding in the dark has time to hit me, headed back up the stairs. My foot catches beneath a step and I crash back down. My head collides with the cold, hard floor as my broken arm screams under the full weight of my body. I lie there dazed, unable to move and feel something nudge against my foot. Shooting pains stab through my chest as I begin to hyperventilate. This is it, this is all there is for me. They'll eat me alive and leave what parts they don't like to rot. The pilots will open the door to the familiar smell of decaying flesh. Will they even remove my body from this pit to give me a funeral? Or will I be unable to escape the basement even in death?

A scream tears itself from my throat as sharp teeth sink into my heel. The pain in my chest rises in crescendo, ever more, ever more, until black fades to black.

I come round slowly, hearing my name called, feeling hands lift me into the air. I do as I'm trained and feign unconsciousness, my breath and heartbeat remaining steady. I can hear the voices of all four pilots as they speak to each other in lowered tones. I feel them carry me up and out of the basement, sheer relief washes through me followed by an equal rush of determination. I won't give them the chance to put me down there again.

They set me down on my own bed, I can feel the texture of the sheets beneath my hand and smell the reassuring tang of metalwork and gunpowder tucked under my pillow. I feel Duo's hand brush my hair from my face in what he probably means to be a soothing gesture. The only emotion I feel is utter fury. He can't expect to betray me and then comfort me. He can't be my equal and my superior. I can't be his lover, can't be his, and live in fear of him. This situation is more horrifying and destructive than anything J. conjured up.

I won't drink again. They've complete their mission. Even if I did risk it I know that the solace it once provided will be gone. That aching fear forever associated with what once offered bliss, if only for a short while. I can't stay here. What if some other trait of mine offends them and they decide to correct me? I can't, won't, do this again. If I could try to leave but I doubt they'll let me, not after all this. I'll just have to fight my way to freedom. Freedom from those I called friends. From him I called lover. The element of surprise is on my side at least. My right arm might be broken but I can shoot just as well with my left, the good doctor made sure of that.

I make a good show of waking up, stretching my left arm beneath the pillow, expecting my fingers to meet cool steel. It isn't there. I sit up, all pretences of stupor gone as I demand to know where my gun is. All of my bravado though is false. They have control of me now; they outnumber me and are most likely armed. I feel like destiny is mocking me, allowing me to feel free of J. at last, only to have my "friends" invoke his methods.

How will this work now? If I burn breakfast for the pilots will I be punished? If I shy away from Quatre's hugs or fail to please Duo in bed will the darkness be my reward? They tell me they've taken my gun and will only return it once I've proven myself stable.

I just don't know what to do any more.

I really do not know.

I can feel fine tremors running through my body. The others have gone, leaving me alone with Duo. He folds his arms around me and gently kisses my neck, his own, usually effective way of calming me down. The sensation conjures up the same feelings as always; warmth, comfort, love. At the same time darker emotions fight for my attention. What he did to me, how can I let him hold me as if it never happened?

Just one more. Just one more night, and that's the last. We lie on the bed, both fully clothed and do not speak. My back is to him, his arms wrap around me as I try to convince myself that moments such as this are worth living in fear of those you once trusted. My eyes sting and fill with tears which slowly trickle down my face. One single drop leaves its companions to travel to the corner of my lips.

So now I know. My tears taste only of salt, sorrow and bitter reality.

Fin?


	2. Chapter 2

Dedicated to Naomi, who is brilliant at fanart and even better at bribery.

Insurrection

The dawn breaks on the day after my intervention and what have I learned? I've learned that drink is not the answer. That broken bones still hurt like hell. And that the spirit of my former master lives on in my friends. My mind hasn't stopped racing since they pulled me out of that pit. All night spent pouring over the last two years, searching for the nuances that should have warned me, you are not equal. I couldn't find any. If I wasn't so numb I think I'd be angry. At them or at myself. Both. Neither.

The dawn's light paints the room an ominous red and I try to remember the last time I saw the sun rise. Three months ago. With Duo. We'd finally been thrown out of a club at dawn. I recall hating the suns first rays as they stung my sensitive eyes. Neither one of us spared a glance for its beauty.

This moment is an unholy purgatory. I am waiting for the soft dawn to turn into harsh day and wake my sleeping lover. Fear and anticipation war within me. I feel him stir. We remain perched in the same precarious position we assumed the night before. Fully clothed, my back against his chest. Arms wrapped possessively around my waist. The heat of his arousal brushes my senses even though layers of cloth and denim. Anticipation proclaims defeat and departs the field. One emotion reigns triumphant.

I have never refused him. Not on one single occasion. I can't predict what his reaction will be if I say no. /Should have given him the bottle/. The dreaded "What ifs" fill my mind.

My lover is fully awake now. Lips at my neck, hands on my chest and no idea that I do not welcome his touch. I could say no. He is a good person, I know this, he wouldn't force me. But the sting of his betrayal lingers, broken glass sharp. Always he stood as my last defence against the normal world. Forever there with a ready excuse on my behalf, constantly introducing me to something new. A shame that alcohol became the something I liked most. I welcomed it as my lover. Craved sweet liquor more than sweet Duo.

How long has it been? A fortnight? A month, maybe two? In a moment of clarity I remember our argument the night before the basement. Sex was at the heart of it all. He had been horny and I had been too tired and too drunk to care. I said no.

The moment of clarity stretches into horrific realisation and I almost vomit as I hear a zipper slide down. I had forgotten. I refused. That was the breaking point. An argument had followed, violent voices screaming violent words. And the next day . . . They threw me down. My eyes close under the weight of my realisation. Hands grab at me in the dark and they snap open wide in an instant. I am not in the basement. They do not have me.

I feel my lover's arousal pressing against me, demanding and find myself on a precipice. A word of dissent, that's all it would take, a part of me reasons. But I am weak, I am injured. If he decides to, he can take what he wants. Better to be reluctant than to be raped. The internal argument is silenced as Duo pushes in.

All that echoes in the vast recesses of my mind is the voice of a little boy. And he is screaming.

A hand not my own moves to my crotch. I shy away. Acting like a spooked horse so he won't find out how spooked I really am. In spite of this, the hand reaches its goal. Its owner isn't happy with what it finds. He pulls out and leaves the bed, moving to kneel before me. That alone is enough to make me uneasy, it should be me on my knees. His cheeks are still flushed though his arousal has ebbed. His eyes ask why I didn't proclaim that I wasn't "up" for it. I wish I knew the rules to this game. He strokes my cheek, an expression of compassion on his face as his eyes linger on my wounded wing. Where was that compassion when I had truly needed it? What happened to quiet understanding and empathy and honour? Only I can bring out the worst in people. Only me.

The man in front of me is asking question after question. I have no answers. I hope he shuts up soon. Please be quiet. Shut up. Shut up!

"I need a drink," I hear the words echo in the room and know I have spoken out loud. I shouldn't have thought that, never mind voicing it, never mind to him. There goes the compassion. He looks mad. He refuses to look at me again as he grabs his boxers, pulls them on and leaves the room.

Make way for panic and the "What if" parade, they're taking control.

I wonder where he's gone? He might have gone to get the others, they might be coming to put me down again. I should be running. But I'm not. I lie still and stare, wide-eyed, right into the rising sun. I don't know how long I lie there, tracking the stars progress across clear blue sky. I hear fingers fumble at the door and my training tries to kick me into action. Be awake. Be aware. Be armed. But I can't tear my aching eyes away from the brightness. Let them come.

Duo Maxwell steps between me and the sun, forcing me to blink away vivid spots of orange and red. He places a tray of food on the floor, the compassion is back in his eyes. I feel a wave of premonition. I know what's coming next.

"..What happened in the basement?" There it is. I'm surprised he managed to hold back that long. His curiosity is a killer. He's asking the wrong questions though, I can't answer that question because I don't know what happened down there. That's the whole point. You don't know if it's real or fake, you don't know what demons are down there or what they will do. You don't know why they hurt you, but they do. I don't know why they hurt me.

"..Why are you afraid?" I laugh at that one. Short and quickly stifled but I know he hears the edge of mania. The start of the laugh I laughed in my mobile suit as I cut down so many people. If I hadn't laughed, I'd have cried and then I would have been the one cut down. There are so many answers to his question, so many accusations and confessions and emotions, all trying to get out at once. As they surge forward they get caught in my throat, strangling me. I look back at him in silence and see his forehead crease in disappointment. He brushes the hair from my face in that well known expression of comfort and whispers that he's sorry and he hopes I will tell him when I'm ready. Then he gets dressed and leaves me be.

I resent him for making it sound so easy. How would I start that conversation? I can't even begin in my head. I want him to know, want him to know what they did to me and why it hurt so much. I want him to feel pain. I want him to know that they are guilty. On the night that we had first made love Duo told me that if I couldn't tell him how I felt, I should show him. The advice proved most useful then. I think it should apply now.

In the attic there is a box marked "Confidential", marked "Private". It is a large box, reaching to the waist of most people and just as wide. The contents have been seen by only two people; Dr. J, who created them, and Lady Une, who packed them away. The box has been sitting in the attic for two years, a thick, uniform layer of dust attests to the fact that it has never been touched in this time. The polished surface of the knife in my hand is dull in the gloom cast by the solitary light bulb hanging from the rafters. With nervous anticipation I plunge the knife through the cardboard and slowly cut it open. Dirt clings to me as I pull back the lid. The contents seem innocent enough. Sheaves of paper, rows of vid-disks, all carefully wrapped in plastic sheets to prevent damage and damp. These print-offs, scribbled notes, photographs, audiotapes and moving pictures document my tutelage beneath the good doctor. The organisation known as "Preventers" raided his laboratory; they found him rotting in his office. Lady Une had personally inventoried any piece of evidence pertaining to "01" and had forwarded what she found to its rightful owner. That would be me. I had accepted gruffly, ordered the box to be taken to the attic, remarked that the world must indeed be safe if the leader of its battle arm was pushing paperwork. As I pull out a pile of photographs I realise why the Lady had been so discrete. I hastily place them back in the box, fighting a wave of revulsion. I have to force myself to delve into the contents again.

I pick up a row of vid-disks, close the dreaded box and make my way back to my room. To my laptop. I spread the disks out across the desk, my left hand hovers above them, unsure of which to choose. Every disk is labelled "01", all but one. Towards the left hand side of the spread is a disk labelled with not two, but three numbers. "101". I look away as I remember the small brass plaque, bearing those three innocuous digits, which adorned the door to the basement. I look back and the number stares right back at me, printed in J's unmistakable handwriting. For some reason I'm not happy that I've found what I'm looking for.

I slide it into the laptop and press play, all the while feeling like I am being herded towards that dreaded door. The screen flickers to life and I manage to watch long enough to see a much younger version of myself thrown down a metal staircase, into darkness. With a whimper I hit stop. The force of the blow causes the image to waver but it does not end. The image switches to infrared and I see my counterpart beating against the door, see a hint of movement in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. The monsters waiting for me. Frantically I hit eject and the image cuts to black. The shaking is back. Oh God. My rational mind dissolves; I don't know what takes control.

I find myself in the kitchen. Crouching on the floor and fumbling in the concealed alcove of a cupboard. I find the bottle hidden there and sink back on my heels. I throw the vid-disk, still in my trembling left hand, onto the counter and concentrate my efforts on opening the bottle. I can feel eyes on me but hell if I care. I want to drown. Drown everything. I tip back my head, straighten my throat to make a clear passage and upend the bottle. The burning fluid pours into me, faster than I can swallow. I start to choke and almost smile. I try to breathe and the alcohol fills my lungs. I am drowning on dry land. A hand grabs for the bottle, upsetting my aim and stinging liquid splashes into my open eyes, blinding me. There is shouting and confusion. A strong hand catches my broken arm and more pain rips through me. I don't know why they hurt me, but they do. I start to fight, throwing back my good elbow, feeling it connect with something, feeling that something break. I hurt them back.

All I can see is blurs and shadows and streaks of flesh coloured light. The fight goes on and I stumble, losing ground. I turn and see a great maw of darkness in front of me. I am pushed towards it. I lose my footing and for a moment I am weightless, falling. I realise what is happening. Remember that I am not in training. J is dead, long dead and still I cower from his shadow. This is the life of peace I fought for. I truly am a fool; I deserve everything they give me. Gravity is pulling me down. I'm still afraid. Then my head hits the concrete with a sickening thud.

I think no more.

Fin?

If you're over 18 and not easily fazed, go and view Heero's demons:

www. duoxheero .com /pictures/naomi/insurrection.jpg


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